“Perhaps,” he said, “you’d rather not do it. Perhaps you’d rather go away and tell the police that I’m here with you. They’ll be glad of the information. You’ll get a reward, I dare say. Anyhow, you’ll be safe.”
Stung by his reproach, the young men raised their hands one after another. Denis Ryan raised his, though it trembled when he held it up.
“So we’re all agreed,” said Murnihan. “Then we’ll do it to-night. Where will we go first?”
There was no lack of suggestions. The men knew the locality in which they lived and knew the houses where there were arms. Sporting guns in many houses, revolvers in some, rifles in one or two.
“There’s a service rifle in Drennan’s,” said Murnihan, “that belonged to that nephew of his that was out in France, fighting for the English, and there’s a double-barrelled shotgun there, too.”
“Drennan is no friend of ours,” said a man. “He was always an enemy of Ireland.”
“And Drennan’s away at the fair at Ballyruddery, with his bullocks,” said another. “There’ll be nobody in the house—only his wife and daughter. They’ll not be able to interfere with us.”
Murnihan asked for ten volunteers. Every man in the room, except Denis Ryan, crowded round him, offering to go.
“Eight will be enough,” said Murnihan. “Two to keep watch on the road, two to keep the women quiet, and four to search the house for arms.”
He looked round as he spoke. His eyes rested distrustfully on Denis Ryan, who stood by himself apart from the others. In secret societies and among revolutionaries, a man who appears anything less than enthusiastic must be regarded with suspicion.